Though I Die Tonight
by Angeliz
Summary: The clock is ticking, the snow is falling, and he doesn't turn around as the door clicks behind him. He already knows the reflection in the glass. Oneshot, revolves around Ryou and Bakura by implication.


(a/n): Hey, peoples. How's it going? That's cool. Anyway, this is a quick oneshot I put together yesterday. I was experimenting with a different sort of style than I usually use, but I think it turned out well. I like it, anyway. So, give it a read and see what you think. Thanks!

…

It's dark as the clock chimes seven, so very dark that he wonders whether it has somehow stopped or slowed or broken. He wouldn't put it past the clock to do so just to annoy him, despite the fact that he doesn't annoy easily, and despite the fact that it would know this. It is a rather old clock, after all, much older than he. But, with all those years in its claim, perhaps it has no other way to amuse itself. It must be lonely, being a clock.

His fingers stroke the windowsill lightly as he looks through the glass, streetlight casting a ghostly glare. It's snowing. The flakes drift lightly through the sky, lazily, as if they have all the time in the world, which they probably do. His reflection is superimposed across them. He is as whitely pale as they, as silent and distant, but he knows he is different. Snowflakes never die. People have that tendency.

The door clicks behind him, but he doesn't move, doesn't turn to look. He knows who it is. Nobody else has a reason to be here. Nobody else moves so lightly. Nobody else has a key.

_Hey_, a voice says, ice-quiet and intense. The sound of a fluttering coat beneath words. He continues to watch the snow, a new figure in the window.

_You came back._

_Yes._

He nods at the glittering city lights, the glittering city snow, the glittering city. Like diamonds, maybe. Like teardrops in moonlight. Like snowflakes.

_I don't want to be here_, says the voice. Its reflection shrugs in the darkened glass, half-melted slush puddling beneath it on the floorboards. Eyes are half-lidded in the firelight, glinting red. Hearts are half-breaking between them. The reflection will never admit it, but he knows. He understands.

_I understand_, he says, _but thank you for coming anyway._ The words come in a whisper. His voice has always been soft, almost fragile, has always been strange to hear at high volume. He whispers to the reflection, because he knows the reflection can always hear him. The reflection shrugs once more, moving closer, away from the door and the fireplace, away from the warm glow. It has become bigger with perspective, standing just behind him. There is warm breath on the back of his neck. His own breath fogs the windowpane.

_Why are you here?_

The reflection stiffens, stills. A hand on his shoulder, awkward and tense. _Do you want me to leave?_ asks its voice. It does not quite answer the question, but it does not quite _not_, either. He smiles at the sky.

_No. I'm glad to see you. I'm glad you came._

An exasperated _hmph_ joins the squeak of shifting boots and the crackling of fire. _I'll never understand why_, says the voice, reflection glancing away. It runs a hand through snowy-white hair as it speaks, ruffling the messy spikes.

Identical hand, identical hair. Identical twins, only very, very not. Brown eyes flicker, missing red by mere seconds. A connection nearly forged through glass.

He returns his gaze to the snow. There is a clock tower in the distance, ticking off minutes as easily as the clock on the bookshelf and the watch on his wrist. He ignores all three of them in favor of the sparkling night, though he can't help but wish there were stars.

The reflection seems impatient. It shifts back and forth, almost pacing, muttering words in a tongue long dead. Its fingers are cold on the back of his neck, but solid. Comforting in their presence alone. Comforting like fire at his back and ice at his front, in that strange, disorienting way. The clock ticks on, oblivious.

Silence covers the room like a blanket, neatly ruffled by the reflection's hand.

_How long do you have?_

_I don't know. Not long. Before the night is through._

A sigh escapes, tousling his hair. That hardly seems fair, says the reflection, bloody eyes on the skyline. I don't want this, they say, I don't want this at all. The eyes say what the voice cannot, sincerity in their unshed tears. Glistening tears, glistening city. Snow on the streets.

_I know._

His hand presses against the chill of the window, against the reflection's face, its smooth alabaster skin. His thumb brushes lightly at the tears of the illusion as it leans into his pseudo-touch. Fire and ice, fire and ice. He is numb to both. He is a slave to both. They race through his veins like burning.

The clock chimes eight.

An hour passed in minutes, the unwelcome magic of the mind. His hand jerks from the glass and his body follows, flailing backwards with the flutter of snowy hair. Dark brown and crimson, a fleeting union in the windowpane before he hits the floor. His eyes are blank, his mind is blank, his heart is still and silent. His body lies as it fell, sprawled across the dampened floorboards. The fire deftly extinguishes itself, throwing the room into darkness, save the streetlight's pale glow.

The reflection shakes its head, steadies itself against the glass. Red is overlaid on the skyline, red and black and pale against lazy snowflakes and dark sky. It cries like blood instead of diamonds, trails of tears matching its eyes as its fingers curl with emotion.

The room is empty but for the corpse. Icy wind rattles the windowpane, and the reflection blurs and disperses.

…

(a/n): Well, that's that. What do you think? It was a different writing style for me, so I'd like to have some opinion. Review please! (Flames, constructive criticism, niceness...it's all welcome here.)


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